Musings
by Sjenne
Summary: Sunshine Islands Universe. Collection of drabbles. Rated T to be safe. Genre will be posted with warnings each chapter.
1. Immune - Vaughn

a/n: A collection of HM: SI drabbles. I got bored, and at the present, have no ideas I like for a full fic on anything. First up's something with Vaughn. Probably very out of character, but I don't know. HM gives so little insight into real character, but thankfully this means there's much to experiment with…

Disclaimer: Harvest Moon Sunshine Islands = not mine

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**Immune**

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Talking has never been one of his strong suits. He's reminded again of the fact as he exits his room; Julia lifts her head and smiles, and Mirabelle positively beams at him. It's so ridiculously uncomfortable that he wouldn't be surprised at any point if someone threw a carrot at him and said, 'Happy April Fool's!' He doesn't know where the 'happy' came from. He's been listening to Julia too much – _happy, so happy, everything's great today, doesn't it make you happy? Aren't you _happy_ Vaughn?_ Mirabelle might also have been a contributing factor (_Vaughn! You're looking well, relaxed and happy, eh? I can't tell you how glad we are you came; it's made us all so happy…_)

He resists the urge to groan as Julia pipes up again with, 'Happy Birthday, Vaughn!' He tries to think positive – they remembered, they've probably made a cake (with carrots), maybe Julia didn't tell anyone (come on, think something better, this _is_ Julia), maybe this is all just a dream, maybe, if he closes his eyes and counts to ten, there's no place like home-

'We even got candles! See if you can get them all!'

He knows the smile he attempts to force out is not remotely dissimilar to a grimace, but fortunately the women don't seem to notice. He's brought over to the table by Julia's iron grip of excitement, and is subjected to the ultimate in embarrassing renditions of traditional methods of torture, and then the cake is pushed in front of him.

It's a bonfire. There is no other way to describe it – the Islands must be magic, because there is no other explanation for the still standing house around them. How old do they think he is? He's vaguely aware that his grimace is turning into something less agreeable, and turning very quickly from something less agreeable into a freezing death glare capable of taming hell as he smells something that smells so very similar to-

'-my favourite, carrot cake!'

His death glare apparently has no effect on the _food_ of hell.


	2. Nervous - Mark x Chelsea

a/n: A Mark/Chelsea drabble. He's a cutie. Not too sure about writing him, though.

Warnings: Toward the higher end of the T rated spectrum.

**Nervous**

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He doesn't totally mean it when he says it; it just comes out naturally, a sort of groomed response. It's automatic. He tells her as much as soon as the words leave his mouth, and she nods, says, 'It's ok.' He knows it isn't, but it's what they do best – pretending it is – so he says, 'Ok,' and she lets him slide his arms around her and lean his head on her shoulder. She keeps cooking while he watches, and, with her brilliant cooking skills, is able to make a very convincing stir fry without his position feeling awkward. He marvels at it, tells her against her neck, 'You're a genius,' and sits down at the table when she swats at him playfully.

He's so in love with her. He doesn't think she knows just how much.

He can't help but get up again, to help her this time. Her hands are too important to injure on cooking.

He stays after the meal, helps her to wash up, and dries all of the dishes. He feels a ridiculous sense of pride at knowing where everything goes. It makes him feel like he belongs. She talks about silly things, about things that don't really relate to anything, and slowly moves onto those things that could be slightly more important, then things that he likes to imagine she can't talk about to anyone else. He never gets bored of talking with her. When she almost drops a plate, he catches it instantly – he's watching her too much, there's no clearer indicator – and refuses her assistance in putting away things and sends her to the table. He can feel his neck growing hot and knows she's looking at him. He swallows involuntarily.

He finishes the job quicker than he would have with her help, and when he looks at her, she's still looking at him. He wishes he'd kept his hat on. He feels too exposed without it. She looks all too close, vulnerable and entirely too _Chelsea_. He looks away. The blush is starting to spread.

'I think I should go.'

She doesn't stop him.


End file.
